Dyin for some Spyin
by Lukiss
Summary: A James Bondish story in GTA. Two agents on vacation are caught up in a twisted plot of evil, Oh Yeah. Review this mother, it kicks your ass. Chapter 6 is up. R&R or I will destroy you.
1. Liberty

Vincent stepped off the stairs leading up to the private jet and onto the tarmac of Francis International Airport. A barrage of smells assaulted his nostrils; the reek of an over-polluted sea, the stink of burning tires and the stench of blood. It was pervasive, the kind of smell that God himself with a couple thousand bars of Lava soap couldn't remove. He was in Liberty.  
  
"Daddy's back!" He exclaimed.  
  
Vincent was a medium-sized guy, weighing in at about 190 lbs. and 6 feet 3 inches, he wasn't a giant, but he carried his weight as if he was. Although he never really thought himself handsome, the ladies usually did, so he didn't mind. He was articulate, able to roll with the best of the orators, yet he still had the ability to tone it down to communicate effectively with everyday folk. Never did Vincent compromise, people knew not to mess with him. One look and people realized that trifling with Vincent was like kickboxing an ostrich: one bad fucking idea. All the better, he thought as he smiled, bearing his pearly white teeth. His dark brown hair cut at a medium length swayed gently in the sea wind. His broad shoulders filled his black suit nicely, his snow white collared shirt unbuttoned, opened ruggedly and without a tie. This will be fun, he thought.  
  
Agent Vincent Gannon was a member of the Central Intelligence Agency, he was a spook. Although he was at the "tender" age of 28, he had already accumulated quite a record at the Agency, and not for his lack of indiscretion. He was branded "The Cowboy" for his rash, yet usually successful decisions. He had run every kind of op, from the smallest rescue to a few world saving efforts. Although most, if not all of his missions would never see the light of day, he took satisfaction in knowing that his job did matter, despite its sometimes messy nature. At least I got a fun assignment this time, he thought, I deserve it after that shit in Columbia.  
  
The "mission" was a stretch, even for the CIA. In reality, he had more or less won the assignment, it was a paid vacation of sorts. And all on the Agency's dollar, thought Vincent. It was simple, meet up with an equally successful British Military Intelligence agent, and "investigate" a possible mob connection to the drug trade. The Agency had already informed him that the connection was most likely non-existent, the mission was meant solely as a reward, and to further cement international relations. If nothing else, it would be nice to see Thomas Moore again, Vincent mused. Thomas was the British connection, and not a stranger to Vincent. The two had run various missions before, including a particularly dangerous one during the British release of Hong Kong. The two agents were always in competition, it was a matter of national pride. Neither was willing to admit that the two nations might have equally good intelligence agencies. They were always willing to do whatever it takes to prove which was the best of the red, white, and blues.  
  
"Ahem, Vincent Gannon?" A nearby woman porter asked.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Excuse me, but your car is waiting for you," the porter said meekly as she pointed across the tarmac to a red Banshee.  
  
Beautiful, thought Vincent as he began to walk towards the automobile. The porter fell into step behind as the spy surveyed the landscape. Barely able to make out the shapes because of the setting sun, he noticed a gathering of military equipment; helicopters, jeeps, and even what appeared to be replica of the Enola Gay. "Thanks. What's up with all of Uncle Sam's toys?" Vincent asked.  
  
"Oh, those. I'm not sure, um I think we're having maybe an air show or something?" The porter replied with confusion. "Oh, my bad, I have a message for you too. Some army guy dropped it off I think." The porter extended her hand, offering the sealed envelope to the spy.  
  
"Thanks sweetie," Vincent replied, reaching for the envelope and drawing a smile from the young airport worker. Vincent reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a jackknife as the porter scurried away to the next plane. So young, Vincent thought, and what a shitty job to take to pay the bills. He immediately cut open the envelope, exposing a letter, a stuffed billfold, and a set of keys, presumably for the Banshee. Standing on the black runway stained with 747 tire marks, he read:  
  
Agent Gannon:  
  
You did a damn fine job in Columbia. That'll keep us in control of the supply for a while. You earned this one cowboy. It should be fun. Sorry it isn't Miami, but let me assure you, Liberty is not lacking in entertainment. There should be $100,000 in the fold, blow it all in one place. I also took the liberty of putting you on the VIP list of Kenji's Casino, loose slots and loose girls son, the hottest spot in town. The car's yours too, it's bullet proof and we did a little engine work on it, just for you. You just remember to show up for the meeting with that limey spook. He's expecting you at the Bedford Point Entrance to the underpass, Bedford Street and 7th at 1:15 AM. You guys just need to check out a lowlife named Joey, some smalltime crook, he's staying at the Olympic Hotel in Staunton, easy shit, especially for you. DON'T MAKE THIS INTO MORE THAN IT IS! Just check out this Joey character, get drunk and get some ladies. Don't you fuck up this town like you did Paris, did you know those surrender monkeys want the Statue of Liberty back after that episode! We can't have anymore of that, so take it easy. Even cowboys get a day off.  
  
Have Fun,  
  
Director Clark  
  
Have fun? Is that how we do things these days? Vincent thought. Well, who cares? The spook walked casually to his CIA issue Banshee and fired up the engine. "I have $100,000 dollars, a fast car, and a front-of-the-line pass at a casino, this will be fun," declared Vincent as he tore out of the airport. He calmly downshifted as he ripped through a green light and sped across a lift bridge towards Staunton Island. 


	2. To the Casino!

Vincent took his eyes off the road as the Banshee sat idling at a stoplight. He checked his watch, 12:13 AM. The flight was on time, Vincent thought, that's mildly amazing considering this country's airline system. The light turned green and he made a right turn, heading down a one way street running south into Bedford point. The bustling business center of Liberty was usually a traffic nightmare, but the early hours made for a quick trip.  
  
Turning left and crossing across a diagonal street, Vincent pulled onto Staunton's western speedway, the most direct route to Kenji's Casino. Normally, Vincent would have first gone to the meeting point to scout it out and ensure that it had not been compromised, but this was a special mission. Besides, he thought, why the hell should I sit around waiting for that British bastard when I could be enjoying the fruits of Liberty. A smile burst onto Vincent's face as the casino came into view, he would have fun indeed.  
  
As he sped into the valet entrance, Vincent figured that it was time to let the fun begin. He tore into the valet section, pulling the e-brake at the last possible moment, sending the red banshee into a full 360-degree spin, stopping within only meters of the quivering valet.  
  
Vincent opened his door, stepping out of the car and into a cloud of tire smoke. The valet coughed as he quickly approached the spy. "I'd image you know what to do with this?" Vincent asking mockingly.  
  
"Yes, sir," the teenaged valet's voice cracked, the boy still frightened by the dramatic entrance.  
  
"Good," Vincent said, tossing the young man the set of keys, and slipping the youth a twenty to calm his nerves.  
  
"Yes sir!" The boy exclaimed, immediately regaining confidence.  
  
Vincent sauntered towards the entrance, bypassing the long line to get in. The line was a result of the fact that despite its nature, the casino was tremendously selective. It was a place for high rollers only, no grandmas parked at slot machines. It was tougher to get into than the trendiest nightclub, and more dangerous than one with Puffy in it. Some of the people in the line yelled at him to get in back, but the bouncer knew better.  
  
"Vincent, right?" The large black man asked.  
  
"Correct."  
  
"Come in, I've been informed about your 'situation.'"  
  
"Isn't that pleasant?" Vincent replied, pleased to know that he would be given the full VIP treatment, but a little uneasy about the fact that the bouncer had known whom he was without even consulting his list. It was not good for business, particularly when the business is spying, to be so well known, Vincent thought.  
  
However, he put his spy instincts on hold, remembering that he wasn't undercover, and if even someone knew who he was, what could they do about it. Vincent slowly walked into the casino, taking his time to digest it all. It stood sprawling before him: poker tables, blackjack, roulette, craps. The red carpet matched perfectly with the gold and wood lavishly thrown all over the walls of the building. Giant gongs, samurai armor, and golden dragons completed the oriental look of the casino, proudly displaying the culture of its former owner, Kenji Kassen.  
  
As he neared the craps tables, Vincent saw a familiar form. God, she looks great, especially from behind, Vincent thought. Even with her back turned to him, he could identify her, Veronica Martinez. She was of medium height, 5'8'' at most, and was the subject of most men's aquatic dreams. Veronica was Argentinean, but most people couldn't recognize it because of her Germanic roots. Her short black hair formed the outline of her pretty, symmetrical face, and bushed teasingly along the bottom of her slender neck. Then there's the twins, Vincent thought, reminiscing about long sleepless nights not spent saving the free world. Although not massive, her C-cups were more than enough to make some men quietly remove their wedding rings. They also provided a top to the rather alluring hourglass that was her body. Neither too flat nor too round, she filled dresses very nicely. Such was the case with the sleek Italian-looking number she was currently sporting. The black outfit fit her very well, and served as a brilliant background to her shimmering diamond necklace. The necklace was custom- made, and its beauty was undeniable. The slinky black dress, diamond necklace, and beautiful figure would lead most men to think of her as some rich, attractive starlet, they would be wrong.  
  
Veronica's name was synonymous with information, in Liberty, or anywhere else. She used to be the spider at the center of the world's largest private information web; it was no wonder that the CIA was constantly in touch with her. She had provided the intelligence for numerous CIA ops, her services were responsible for hundreds of successful operations and various arrests in the new, CIA-controlled, drug operation. It was also this help that made her a wanted woman. Veronica was the most sought after woman in the criminal world, nearly every major terrorist leader or drug dealer wanted her head on a stick for some reason or another. The CIA had been kind enough to provide her a new identity and life in Liberty. The Agency does take care of its people, thought Vincent, at least some of the time.  
  
Vincent grabbed a couple of glasses of scotch from a passing waitress and slowly crept up behind her.  
  
"Scotch on the rocks, your favorite," he said slyly as he leaned against the table next to her, offering a glass. She turned quickly a smile on her face at the recognition of his voice. However, as her eyes met his, he smile quickly became a frown.  
  
"You son of a bitch!" Veronica exclaimed as she slapped Vincent across the face.  
  
He took the blow without flinching. "But darling, I said I'd be back!" Vincent said calmly, almost mockingly.  
  
"You left me in a slum in Budapest! You know I hate Budapest!"  
  
Vincent looked her straight in the eyes as he flashed a trademark smile. "Something came up."  
  
Her face was fuming. "No, no, no. No mister superspy this time. I'm not some woman to be conquered you know, I have feelings Vincent!"  
  
Quick as lightning, he reached over and kissed her hard on the lips. She quickly pushed him off, slapping him again. Again he took the blow in stride, not letting a single ounce of pain show, despite the fact the she hit pretty hard. Working out again, have you? Vincent thought. Well, time to give her the eyes. With that, he looked deep into her eyes, letting the silent emotion do the talking. He could read people this way. He saw her, saw the anger in her heart. But then, as if a gradual process had come to sudden fruition, he saw her crack.  
  
"Damn you," Veronica conceded as the anger melted out of her system. She never could resist me, Vincent thought. Especially that night in Budapest, man, God bless her lack of gag reflex…  
  
"What brings you here to Liberty?" Asked Veronica.  
  
"Little bit of this, little bit of that…"  
  
"You couldn't have picked a worse time to show up."  
  
"I hear the Mafia's been peddling some new stuff."  
  
"Not that I've heard. Hell, I wish it was just drugs, and the Mafia hasn't been doing much of anything lately, except for infighting."  
  
"Really?" The agent pretended to be surprised, knowing that the mission was indeed fake, and little more effort would need to be expended. He trusted her advice, he knew that despite her early retirement, Veronica still had her finger on the pulse of Liberty. Or maybe I can expend some more effort, Vincent mused, on Miss Martinez…. "I heard some Joey guy was in on the trade."  
  
"Joey? No, not drugs, but he sure as hell ain't clean."  
  
"Anything of interest?"  
  
"Are you kidding? He's in with Him, of course it's interesting?"  
  
"Him?" Vincent asked, genuinely curious.  
  
"I take it you weren't briefed very well, huh? I figured you were here to take him out," Veronica said, pausing to take a sip of the scotch before continuing. "He. Mr. X. The Man. Everyone has a different name for him, but no one has the right one. There's nothing on this guy, I mean nothing. I should know, I looked. No social security, no date of birth, no known family, no record, at least not officially. He is a ghost, the agency couldn't have found one better."  
  
"So why's he so big?" Asked Vincent.  
  
"Why? Because he's taken over this town. He came out of nowhere, started out as just a thug, but now, he's in control."  
  
"What happened to all the bosses?"  
  
"Well, he'd work for some boss, right? Do some jobs, whatever. Next thing you know, that boss's missing, or dead. Kenji, owned this casino, used to employ this guy, next thing you know, Kenji's a headline. His sister, Asuka, she gives the guy some work, she's found in a construction site with a rod sticking out of her back. This guy took the cartel out too, wiped out the leaders, cut off its head. He single-handedly dismantled the mob out in Portland. He knocked off the Don, and now the rest of the Capos are tearing each other apart. Thanks to this guy, Liberty's almost gang free. All that's left are some little street gangs, the Mexicans and such," Veronica explained.  
  
"Sounds like a good guy."  
  
"I said gang free, not crime free. This guy is crime. He just walks down the street and starts shooting, doesn't matter who. He steals anything on wheels and uses it to run down anything in his path, the guy's nuts."  
  
"And the authorities can't handle him?"  
  
"Ha, right. They catch him every now and then, but he's out in a matter of hours. He's got dough out the wazzu. After working for so many lowlifes, he's got enough cash to live a hundred highlives, but would rather kill."  
  
"You're telling me no one will stand up to this guy?" Vincent asked incredulously.  
  
"No, exactly the opposite. He's got his own gang, except it's like an anti-gang."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You see, he has so much power that people want to join him, except he doesn't let them, doesn't even say a word. They just give him tributes, cash, cars, whatever. They run out and do stuff, robberies, murder, anything, and give him the profits. So far it's only a few, but it's becoming a cult. It has no name or symbol, another attempt to emulate him, it's like controlled chaos."  
  
"And throughout all this, this guy doesn't say a word?"  
  
"Not to most people, but there are a few. He does seem to have one buddy, a right-hand-man of sorts. Eightball. Big, bald, black guy, real good with bombs. He directs things. He's in charge of Joey," Veronica explained, tying the conversation back together.  
  
"I wondered how he fit in."  
  
"He's the lieutenant, does the dirty work, collects the money, and whatnot. He's the only Mafia guy to make out after the death of the Don. The rest are just locked in wars with each other."  
  
"So, are this "Man" and Joey trafficking drugs, or what?  
  
"I don't think so, but that's just it… They aren't doing anything lately."  
  
"Wouldn't we classify that as good?"  
  
"I don't know… They're up to something Vincent, I'm sure."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"They came to me, well at least Joey did…"  
  
"And?"  
  
"They wanted information."  
  
"Gang stuff?"  
  
"No, that's why I'm worried, they wanted military info. I didn't give it to them, I'm pretty sure I'm on their list now, but that's not what scares me. This guy is absolutely insane, he bathes in blood Vincent, whatever he wanted military data for…"  
  
"… is probably more sinister than drugs," Vincent completed her thought. This is gonna be fun, Vincent thought, or terrible. Ya know, one of those. 


	3. Car chases, sad faces

The alarm on Vincent's watch sounded. Damn, one already? He thought. The high pitched beeping of the gold Rolex could be heard clearly, despite the surrounding storm of yells and laughter. The watch was not CIA issue. Heh, wear something like this in the field, game over. James Bond rules did not apply in real espionage situations, and Vincent knew he should be thankful to be able to glitz it up this mission.  
  
He looked up at Veronica, her brown eyes shining back at him. "I gotta roll out…"  
  
"Vincent, please, whatever it is you're here to do, be careful. This town has always been dangerous, but this is the first time I think it might be too much for even you," she pleaded.  
  
He again drew her close. God, he thought, smelling her subtle perfume, I can taste her. Holding her quivering body, he slowly pressed his lips against hers. Passionately, they met and interlocked. Only for a second however, as Vincent drew away. "Sorry babe, if I start now, I'll never stop. After I find our friend Joey, I finish what I've begun. And don't worry about me, I got some back-up on this one."  
  
With that, he quickly spun around and headed out of the casino. Behind him Veronica traced his movements with her eyes, praying her knight would return as he left.  
  
The cool night air chilled Vincent's lungs as he escaped the smoky atmosphere of the casino. Without a word, the valet ran to the key booth, taking the keys and running to the back parking lot to fetch the Banshee. Vincent sat waiting, staring at the stars. This isn't gonna be clean, he realized, in all my years, I've never felt this way. I'm not afraid for me, I'm afraid for us. His thoughts were interrupted by the howl of the Banshee's engine, and he stowed away his emotions. Game face, Vince, time to go to work.  
  
Vincent flew into the driver's seat only seconds after the young valet could vacate it. A smile crept across his face as he stomped the accelerator, leaving the casino just as he came, in a cloud of rubber. The car sprang out onto the east-west road, travelling only blocks before it again turned, this time onto the lazy "u" that made up Bedford Road. "Weh whe whe wooo," Vincent whispered. For a metropolis, this sure as hell looks like a ghost town. The streets were nearly devoid of cars, with only a few lonely commuters heading to and from their respected graveyard shift. Taking advantage of the abandoned road, he increased throttle, he had only three minutes to make to meeting.  
  
Arriving at last at the entrance to the Bedford underpass entrance, he found a British racing green Sentinel stopped at the stoplight. Vincent pulled up next to the green machine, and the two rolled down their windows.  
  
"Tommy boy!" Vincent exclaimed.  
  
"Nice to see you," the British agent responded. Thomas Moore was the pride of MI, the British military intelligence. He had completed hundreds of missions across all seven continents. I heard that Antarctica one was a bruiser, Vincent remembered. Thomas was older than Vincent, in his mid thirties. His black hair was neatly parted to the left in the classic style. Thomas was slightly smaller than Vincent, and weighed a few pounds more, but physically, the two were near equal. He sat in the driver's seat of the Sentinel in a neat black tuxedo.  
  
"Formal wear Thomas?" Vincent asked sarcastically.  
  
"Something like that," Thomas responded. "Having fun so far?"  
  
"Yeah, just met up with an old lady friend of mine, something you wouldn't know anything about." Vincent and Thomas always loved to compete, like any good superspies, over women.  
  
With that, a dark European woman, previously unseen in the passenger's seat, arose from Thomas' lap. The woman wiped her lips quickly and smiled.  
  
"Touché," Vincent conceded. If nothing else, Thomas still got the ladies, Vincent thought, even though he's an old fogie.  
  
"You'd better go now love," Thomas commanded as he pushed open her door, "guy talk."  
  
The striking women slowly arose from her seat and onto the asphalt. "You'll call me, right James?"  
  
"Sure baby, you know me," Thomas responded with false sincerity as the girl ran away and onto the sidewalk.  
  
"James?" Vincent questioned incredulously.  
  
"James Bond. Of course I don't say the Bond part, but it never fails. Women love a well-dressed Englishman named James." Thomas explained.  
  
"I'd debate the well-dressed part, but why don't we just get on with it, okay?"  
  
"Right. I'd assume you know we're going after Joey Salvatore, right?"  
  
"Yeah, but he isn't runnin drugs."  
  
"Says who?" Thomas inquired.  
  
"Reliable sources. But he is in with someone, someone big."  
  
"And that might be…?"  
  
"He's a no-name, the Man for now. Apparently the local kill-crazy, taking over the town."  
  
"How's that?"  
  
"Long story, doesn't matter. All we know is that he and Joey and some black guy are into something big. Something military."  
  
"So we stick to the plan and check out Joey."  
  
"Agreed," Vincent affirmed.  
  
"Friends of yours?" Thomas inquired as he pointed into his rear-view mirror. Behind the two spies were four pitch black Sentinels. The four cars were fully decked out, spoilers, exhaust, rims, everything. The sat idle, each taking up one of the four total lanes of the street.  
  
"No, but I'd imagine we're about to get acquainted," Vincent declared as he straightened up. Here we go, he thought.  
  
"Green?" Thomas asked, business-like.  
  
Vincent only nodded as he stared straight ahead at the streetlight blazing red. Behind the two, the four cars seemed unsure of what to do next. The four men in each car simply stared at the two exotic cars in front of them, waiting for the prey to make the first move.  
  
The light turned green.  
  
Vincent and Thomas simultaneously slammed on the gas, both burning out as they sped down into the underpass. The four black sedans followed suit, giving chase to the elusive agents. Heh, I love this game, Vincent thought as he focused on the road ahead. The chilly night air became a million needles to the man in the convertible. To his right, concrete pillars began to become a blur by as he sped past them. To his left, Thomas' green car began to slow ever so slightly, giving both spies room to shake their enemies. Past Thomas lay the cold sea, separated from the speeding cars only by a gray sloped concrete barrier.  
  
These fuckers are faster than I thought, Vincent realized. The four pursuers were easily keeping pace behind the leaders. I thought the director said he had the boys do some engine work? One of the black cars pulled up next to Vincent and began to roll down the back driver's side window. Okay, he thought, play my game… Vincent quickly reached into the dash, removing a gold-plated Colt .45. It's black handle gripped tight in his hand as he pointed it at the side of the black car. He opened fire, sending the large caliber bullets into the enemy car. The man in the back of it retorted as he extended his Uzi out the window and began to wildly fire at the Banshee. Shit, Vincent thought, "bullet-proof" my ass. What good is bullet proofing when you're in a convertible? He bent over, ducking behind the low armored panels of the Banshee. He stayed low, keeping his speed up, and trying to keep his car straight. He peered up, into his rearview to see how Thomas was faring.  
  
Behind him, Thomas swerved left and right, trying to dodge gunfire from two black suits firing shotguns. The attacking car was behind Thomas, but the two assailants were leaning out the window, precariously holding onto their place within the car, while trying vainly to hit the green Sentinel. The pursuing black Sentinel was also swerving wildly, its driver trying to give the shooters a better chance of hitting the green car that was driving across all four lanes. Suddenly, the rear bumper of Thomas' Sentinel flipped upwards, revealing two small pipes. Within seconds, the pipes began to spew oil onto the street under them. The driver of the black car saw them too late, and could not avoid the black rivers. Turning madly left, the driver slung his two shotgun-toting comrades out the windows, sending them sprawling onto the street as he entered a death spin. The black Sentinel spun wildly, its tires thoroughly covered in black goo, and hit the barrier separating the underpass from the sea. In a crash no sane stuntman would try, the car spun 360 degrees into the air before falling out into the harsh sea.  
  
Well, one down, Vincent thought as he slowly lifted his head back up to check on his attacker. The backseat shooter had stopped firing, probably to reload, he guessed. Vincent took the short cease-fire to check on the other two black cars. One car was following closely behind the Banshee, it's driver not wanting to stray into the other's gunfire. The other was parallel to Thomas, trying to get into position to hit the rear end of the green car and knock it into a spin. No need to worry about Thomas I suppose, Vincent thought, those MI guys sure know how to rig a car, I guess I'll just have to do this myself. With that, Vincent tapped the brakes on his car, sending the car to his right bounding out in front of him. The car behind hit the back of the Banshee in the most concentrated part of the poorly thought out armor job. Distracted by the damage to the front end of his car, the driver behind let off the gas to regroup, unbeknownst to the car now in front of the Banshee. The car in front, thinking that the rear car would take its turn attacking, never noticed the Banshee surge forward towards it. Vincent slammed the rear-right side of the black sedan with the Banshee's heavily armored hood, sending it spanning into one of the many concrete pillars to the right of the chase. The black car's right side hit the pillar, collapsing it and instantly sending the car into a spin the opposite way, a spin that would take it 540 degrees before the black tomb stopped.  
  
Behind and to the left of Vincent, the car pursuing Thomas was trying to pull the same move and send the green Sentinel into the sea to join his fallen friend. The chaser aligned his right-front wheel with the back left of the green car and slammed into it. The jolt caused the back end of Thomas' car to briefly lose traction, but the British agent managed to keep control and avoid a spin out. The black car again struck and again nearly wiped out the spy. As it lined up for one more shot the back of Thomas' car, the slippery Brit's car again began to morph. Out of each of the rims of the green Sentinel, long spinning spears sprung out. Reaching two meters out from the side of the car, they spun with the power of the rotating wheels, able to rip apart even the thickest tires in a matter of milliseconds. The chasing car saw the spinning metal too late, and before he could try to evade, Thomas struck back, swerving towards his black counterpart. The spear quickly dug into the pursuer's front tire, mangling it and sending sparks flying onto the quiet road. Thomas was not satisfied with merely destroying the tires of his enemy however. He brutally braked, sending the black car past him, the spear still dug in. The entire right side of the car was mercilessly torn apart as Thomas gutted the already wounded Sentinel. As the spear finally reached the gas tank of the destroyed car, Thomas abruptly pulled out, swerving hard right. He made it out in the nick of time. The leaking gas from the severed tank was quickly introduced to a flying spark from the destroyed wheel. They were happily married and had a lovely explosion that blew the car to hell. The end.  
  
For Thomas maybe, thought Vincent. The final remaining black Sentinel pulled up onto the left side of the speeding Banshee. It seemed perfectly happy with merely bumping into the Banshee's reinforced side panels, but not shooting. Fine, play that way, but I like guns, Vincent thought as he smiled to himself. He focused his attention off the road ahead and onto the car to his left, leveling his gun at the speeding car and beginning to unload his clip into it. Four shots in, and the black sedan still continued only to rub against the Banshee, allowing point blank shots. Two more shots were fired before Vincent finally tuned in to the mad honks and flashing high beams of the trailing Thomas. What…? Vincent thought, almost cracking his neck to look back at the Englishman. Vincent could barely make him out through the night and window tinting. In the driver's seat, Thomas was wildly pointing down the road and seemed to be screaming. "Oh shit," Vincent said as he turned to look up the road. Less than a hundred feet away were three black limousines blocking the exit of the underpass. The limos were arranged diagonally across the street, each less than five feet away from the next, doubled up to make ramming impossible. The black Sentinel was forcing Vincent into them, not allowing him the room to swerve left to avoid the obstacle. No time to stop, Vincent realized with dread. His mind racing, he concocted a plan.  
  
Here goes, he thought. Less than twenty feet from the roadblock, with the Sentinel attached to his side, Vincent pulled the Banshee's e-brake while turning the wheel hard left. This pushed him into the side of the Sentinel, putting them both into a fast spin, still heading hopelessly towards the limousines. Within ten feet of the limos, he had already spun 180 degrees, the black sedan still next to him, both cars spinning perfectly in sync, only feet away from each other. His enemy's car seemed almost as if it was frozen in time alongside the Banshee. They seemed to be perfectly still as the world spun around them. Vincent took this time of stillness to begin to dry his clip, firing his last few shots into the other ballerina in the automotive ballet. Just as his Banshee was about to hit the roadblock, he completed his 380-degree spin, lining his car up directly with one of the small gaps in the limo blockade. His car slipped just in between two of the limos, sparks flying as his momentum carried him through the small hole. As he made this final passage, he also unleashed his last round, connecting squarely with the final black pursuing Sentinel's gas tank. Just as Vincent cleared the roadblock, the tank of the black car exploded, flipping one of the limos and scattering the remaining two with the resulting fireball.  
  
Vincent's car, its engine completely dead, slowed to a stop where the underpass met its conjoining road. Vincent let out a sigh. I still got it, he thought triumphantly. He turned around in his seat to behold the carnage he had created. The upside-down limo was on fire, whatever passengers still in it were learning what a cooking hotdog feels like. Serves em right, he thought. Thomas pulled his dented green Sentinel through the newly cleared roadblock. Yeah, try doing that with all of 'em still there, limey, Vincent thought to himself. Thomas pulled up next to the defunct Banshee.  
  
"Fine driving Vincent," Thomas said merrily.  
  
"We CIA boys don't just rely on our cars," Vincent responded.  
  
"Too bad."  
  
Vincent noticed the door of one of the dispersed limos slowly begin to open. "We've got a live one Tommy."  
  
Thomas opened up the door of his car and stepped out into the sea of broken glass and torn metal. "Let's go have a chat, shall we?"  
  
Vincent too opened his door and got out, running to join Thomas at the broken limo. Thomas pulled out his Berretta and motioned for Vincent to open the door. Thomas aimed straight at the ajar car door, ready to subdue any threats remaining within. Vincent stood next to the door hinge, allowing him to quickly open the door, yet still remain out of the line of fire. After getting nonverbal confirmation from Thomas that he was set, Vincent threw open the door.  
  
Inside was a badly bleeding man wearing a black suit and tie. The man was unarmed, and in no state to put up any resistance. Seeing that he was no threat, Thomas pulled him out of the limo.  
  
"Who are you working for!" Thomas yelled at the bleeding man.  
  
"I'm sorry man! We wasn't gunin' for you, we came for that guy," the gangster said in a heavy Italian voice, pointing to Vincent. Jutting out of the man's lower stomach was part of a stick of rebar left over from the construction of the underpass' foundation. The wound created by the metal rod was bleeding profusely and was clearly the cause of the gangster's torment. The mobster had lost any rough edge he might normally have had. He didn't want anything more than to live, he was reduced to a child's state. "I'm sorry man, we was after him! We just saw you, and figured you were in with him. It was just business!"  
  
At that, Vincent reached down and pulled the man up savagely by his black tie, holding him inches from his face. "Business, huh?" Vincent sneered. "I don't know you, so you'd better be a little more descriptive." At this, Vincent grabbed the rebar, twisting it in the man's gut.  
  
"ARRGGGHHHH!!!!" The man screamed. Vincent let go of the rebar to let the man talk. "I, I , I saw you at the casino!" He coughed, spewing out blood. It looked like he might have wanted to say more, but his voiced failed him, leaving only his mouth vainly trying to form words. With one final gut wrenching cough, the man let out is last breath, collapsing onto the asphalt.  
  
"The casino…." Vincent said as the color drained from his face.  
  
"What is it?" Thomas asked.  
  
Vincent looked right into Thomas' eyes, his mouth gaping open, "Veronica." 


	4. Veronica

"Who's Veronica?" Thomas asked.  
  
Vincent didn't reply, he didn't have time to. His mind was racing. If they saw me there, they had to have seen her, he thought. They would be coming for her. He hoped it wasn't too late.  
  
"Vincent, who is this Veronica girl?"  
  
Fuck, how could he have been so stupid to miss the black suits in the casino? He had to save her…  
  
"Who the hell-"  
  
Before Thomas could finish, Vincent made up his mind. He dashed passed Thomas, throwing open the door to the green Sentinel.  
  
"Sorry," Vincent managed before he slammed on the gas.  
  
"Wait!"  
  
By then, Vincent was already exiting the underpass, disappearing into the cold night.  
  
"Fuck…" Thomas muttered.  
  
Streetlights began to mold together, forming a single bright line of light as Vincent sped towards the Staunton Lift Bridge. Shit, gotta hurry, gotta go! His mind screamed. It's Joey, I know it's Joey, that bastard, Vincent raged. He pulled on to the bridge. To his dismay, the scream of the bridge's warning bells pierced the night, the lift was up.  
  
"Fuck!" Vincent screamed. He approached the gap in the bridge, pulling the stolen Sentinel as close to the edge as possible. He waited for the lift to come down. The seconds ticked by, and with them, Veronica's chances of survival.  
  
At last, the lift returned, leveling with the bridge. Before the bridge's warning bells could cease, he was already going, steaming towards Shoreside Vale, towards Veronica.  
  
He screamed down the spiraling road, past the airport, and into Pike Creek. Traffic was sparse, only a few cars headed towards the airport, late flights apparently. Vincent navigated the narrow roads of Pike Creek with ease in the heavily modified Sentinel. The racing class tires gripped the road with tenacity, allowing Vincent to push the car to its limits.  
  
Vincent pulled onto Cochran Dam. He was close to her Cedar Grove swank house. Maybe they wanted me first, his mind pleaded, maybe they haven't even thought about her yet. Inside, he knew he was only setting himself up for pain. The Mafia isn't stupid, he thought with bitter realism, how could I let this happen? She's one of the few, the few I've ever cared about, he thought with remorse. She wasn't supposed to be in danger, I tried to keep her out. I even made the Director promise to set her up with something good, something safe. I was supposed to come home to her when I finished this Agency shit! His mind screamed.  
  
At last, he pulled into the driveway of her million-dollar home. In one fluid movement, he opened the door and set foot onto the gray concrete driveway. He carefully approached the front door, his golden .45 drawn. His eyes darted about, searching for intruders. Finding none, he reached out, turning the gold doorknob. He pulled open the door. It fell off its hinges, forcing Vincent to dodge left, lest the heavy oak door crush him. With a thick "thump," it crashed to the ground, splintering on impact. I'm too late, he realized with dread.  
  
The lavish house was torn apart, it could have been used to teach rookie cops the definition of "signs of struggle." Smashed vases and shards of glass littered the living room, sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight. Overturned chairs and flipped couches completed the environment. Yet no sign of Veronica in the ruined home.  
  
Vincent continued through to the kitchen, checking his corners, despite the fact he knew he was alone. There, he was greeted by the low rush of running water. In the sink sat a small glass, overflowing with water. They came on her when she was getting a goddamn drink of water, he thought with despair. On the floor near the sink was a phone, ripped from the wall. Never had a chance…  
  
Vincent slowly advanced towards the rear of the home. He knew the bedrooms would be there, all homes are the same. As he approached what appeared to be the master bedroom, he drew a deep breath, knowing what lay ahead. He carefully pushed open the slightly ajar door.  
  
The bedroom was as if draped in white linen. The gentle moonlight threw soft light onto the pastel room. To his left was a dresser, covered with perfumes and makeup. The small bottles and crystal vials were all in perfect condition. There was no struggle by then… Vincent thought. The centerpiece of the eerie room was the angel white bed. The sheets were pristine. Lying on the bed was the lifeless form of Veronica.  
  
Slowly, as if not wanting to wake his sleeping lover, Vincent walked to the bed. Veronica was still wearing her beautiful black dress. It stood in dark contrast to the snowy white bed. Her black, swollen eyes were shut. Each of her arms, bruised and cut, was carefully folded across her chest, crossing at her sternum. My angel… Vincent thought. He wished for tears to come to his eyes, but years of training had long since erased "weak emotions."  
  
He visually checked her corpse, not wanting to disturb her slumber. Her body was covered in bruises. Her once perfectly tanned skin now blotched in ugly black. Some wounds, because of the long symmetrical bruises, appeared to be inflicted with a blunt object. A bat probably. As he continued down her body, his stomach turned. Upon closer inspection, her dress was savagely torn. Her inner thighs and legs were viscously bruised. Her left leg was still caked with a small stream of blood. He raped her, Vincent thought. His deep sorrow suddenly mixed with uncontrollable rage.  
  
Vincent was a marble volcano. He was emotionless, neither sorrow, nor hatred could be seen in his chiseled face. His eyes were wide open, yet intensely focused, not on Veronica's dead body, but on something that the eyes cannot see. All he could hear was the soft whisper of his own breath in the pale moonlight.  
  
A hand came down on his shoulder.  
  
Instantly, the rage was released. With inhuman strength, Vincent tackled the intruder. He hit the man like a Buick, using all of his body weight to level the unseen enemy. With the eyes of a shark in a sea of blood, Vincent used the momentum of his tackle to jump on the man, pinning him down. Seeing red, Vincent held his gun with two hands against the man's forehead.  
  
"Vincent!!!!" Thomas screamed.  
  
The red faded away.  
  
"Vincent!!!! Fuck!"  
  
Without a word, Vincent slid off his comrade. He crawled to the foot of the bed. Kneeling before his fallen love, he cried. He had lost friends and lovers before, but it was different now. With deep sobs, the tears flowed.  
  
Thomas slowly got up and walked towards Vincent. Standing over the broken man, Thomas again put his hand on his friend's shoulder, knowing he was in no danger.  
  
"She was it, huh?" The British man said softly.  
  
Vincent choked down his tears, wiping his eyes. "Yes, she was. I didn't even know until now…"  
  
"That's how it always is."  
  
Finally releasing the last of his sorrow, Vincent knelt silently. "How'd you find me?"  
  
"We've got trackers in every car."  
  
"Oh," Vincent replied, empty. "It was my fault, Thomas. God, it was my fault! I went to her, I wanted information on this stupid fucking case."  
  
Thomas then realized whom the woman was, understanding that she was the source of the new information about the Man. "She knew what game she was playing."  
  
"But fuck, Thomas, if I hadn't of gone to her, maybe she wouldn't have-"  
  
"Goddamnit Vincent! We are spies; people die in this game. You're the only one that even thinks she meant something."  
  
"What the hell are you talking about? How dare you say that about her!" Vincent yelled as he turned around, looking up with rage at the Brit.  
  
Thomas grabbed Vincent's shirt, pulling him violently to his feet. "Or you can make everyone know she meant something. She gave you information, useful information. Now you need to get the hell up and help me use that information! She's the one that told us about that Man. Now we can either sit and cry, or honor her, and get that son of a bitch!"  
  
Vincent stared with quiet determination into Thomas' eyes. "Let's roll." 


	5. Joey

Vincent sat quietly in his perch. He towered above the road below. Sitting on top of the multi-storied car park, he had a great view of the surrounding buildings. Especially the Olympic Hotel, Vincent thought. They had spent most of the night planning the op; it was to go perfectly. Of course, things rarely did these days, Vincent thought, God, things had not gone so well lately. His mind began to drift back to the prior night, to Veronica. No, he thought, I can't start again. Thomas is depending on me now.  
  
The plan was simple. They would bug the phone at Joey's hotel room. Thomas, disguised as a hotel employee, would infiltrate the penthouse room and plant the bug. Then, it was only a matter of time until Joey was in contact with the Man. Vincent had wanted to do the job, but Thomas said that the Mafia might recognize him. They did probably know that their attempts to kill me failed, he thought, but Thomas is really more afraid of what I'd do to Joey… Vincent acknowledged that he was not yet ready, mentally, to do the planting. I'm not even sure what I'd do, Vincent thought.  
  
So Vincent was assigned sniper/Intel duty. Due northeast of the car park was the Olympic Hotel; Vincent had a perfect view of the penthouse. He lifted his sniper rifle up, looking through the scope.  
  
The penthouse was made in the classic style, mostly glass. The windows provided Vincent with a cross-section of the penthouse. Through the big windows, Vincent could clearly see the entire room. It was dipped in a tan-white color, everything, from the carpet to the bed was tan. Expensive couches and love seats dotted the entrance to the penthouse. Up a single step behind them was the kitchenette. Sitting on tan tile was a dark mahogany table, at which Joey's boys were sitting. Five black suits sat smoking and playing cards. Money, cards, drinks, and handguns covered the table. Shotguns sat propped up against three of the mobster's seats, fully loaded and ready to go. God help us if this comes down to a shoot-out, Vincent thought.  
  
The bedroom was separated from the kitchenette by a wall, but also visible though the trademark wide windows. The bedroom was simple, keeping to the basics. Only two things lay in the bedroom: the liquor cabinet, and the bed. The bed was disheveled; Joey wasn't much for making bed it appeared. The liquor cabinet was fully stocked, probably due to good hotel service that Joey sobriety. It was currently unoccupied, but that was only because Joey was in the bathroom. The bathroom was across the room from the windows that Vincent looked through. He had yet to see Joey, despite the fact the he had been waiting for an hour already. Come on out of the bathroom, little girl man, Vincent taunted in his mind.  
  
"Vincent, you good?" Thomas called over the radio.  
  
The two had CIA earpiece radios. They were state of the art, placed near the eardrum to make them virtually invisible to anyone but people with ear fetishes.  
  
"Yeah, I'm good," Vincent replied.  
  
"Okay, I'm going in."  
  
Thomas was supposed to be a room service waiter. He would bring the men food that they hadn't ordered, and when they told him so, he would call the front desk. Giving him the perfect chance to plant the bug, Vincent thought. This was one of the easiest plans either of the agents had ever participated in. But, "the best laid plans…" Vincent thought.  
  
Peering through the scope, Vincent watched as the men suddenly stirred. Thomas was at the door. The suits argued for a minute as to who would get the door, and it was finally decided that one of the smaller guys would answer it.  
  
Following the movements of the little mobster through the scope, Vincent watched as he opened the door. Thomas pushed into the room as soon as the man opened it, pulling a cart of food behind him. The smaller gangster was taken by surprise, but clearly not willing to stand up to the pushy waiter. The other four men stood up, clearly confused as to what the food was doing here. They talked quickly with Thomas, but didn't seem to be angry at the sudden arrival of the grub. Something isn't right, Vincent realized.  
  
One of the Mafia men reached into his back pocket. Gun! Vincent thought quickly. He tightened his triggerfinger as he lined up his sights with the man's head, waiting for the mobster to draw. And draw he did. He pulled out his wallet, and gave Thomas three crisp bills. What? Vincent questioned.  
  
Thomas seemed to be equally confused as he soundlessly argued with the mob member through Vincent's scope. The suits were not pleased by the waiter's sudden lack of gratitude and began to push him out the door.  
  
Vincent wiped sweat from his forehead, and in the process, swept his scope across the penthouse. Hearing the commotion, Joey came out of the bathroom.  
  
Vincent had Joey's head within his crosshairs in seconds. It took all his will not to pull the trigger. I can't! Vincent tried to calm his mind, if I kill him, Thomas is dead, I can't! With his rage again under control, Vincent returned to Thomas.  
  
Things were not good in the penthouse. The men in black suits had long since lost their patience for the waiter that wouldn't leave, and one was trying hard to push him out the door. Thomas was fighting equally hard to stay in, and the two stayed deadlocked in the doorframe. Joey burst into the entrance, clearly angered by the commotion in his penthouse. The five men tried to explain to Joey the predicament, but Joey didn't seem to understand why the waiter wouldn't leave. After a few tense minutes, Joey let out a yell at Thomas. Instantly, the nearest mob man drew his weapon. The suit leveled his handgun at the British agent.  
  
"Well shit," Vincent said loudly to himself. He stared intently into his sniper rifle's scope as the action unfolded. Thomas pushed the gun away from him with his left hand. In the same movement, he swung his right elbow into the face of the suit. The man's nose exploded into a fountain of blood as he doubled over and fell to the ground. Thomas took hold of the man's gun as he dove for cover behind a heavy loveseat.  
  
As the rest of the mobsters ran to the table, grabbing their respected weapons, Joey ran back to the bedroom. Picking up the phone, he frantically pounded on the digits.  
  
Back in the entrance, two of the men had flipped over the table, using it for cover. The other two stood confidently, firing at Thomas. His cover began to come apart as lead whizzed into the thick leather. Foam stuffing burst out of the seat, puffing in front of Thomas' head. Thomas peeked his newly acquired handgun over the loveseat and fired at one of the standing suits. Four bullets flew harmlessly to the man's left before one connected with his knee. The kneecap collapsed, spackling the window with blood.  
  
Vincent took his part in the battle as he targeted a suit trying to flank Thomas. Every breath Vincent inhaled slightly jolted his aim. He struggled to control his breathing and get the target into his sights. As the man finally lined his shotgun up with Thomas, Vincent exhaled. Holding his breath, Vincent's sights landed squarely on the man's forehead. He squeezed the trigger, releasing a round. The bullet spiraled towards it target. Shattering the window, the bullet's path was deflected, sending into the man's left eye. The fluids from the popped eyeball were the precursor to the flow of blood from the man's torn eye socket.  
  
As one-eyed jack fell backward, Thomas dove out form his tan loveseat. The two remaining shotgun-toting suits fired at the leaping Thomas. Each burst of shot flew above and below the flying Thomas. The buckshot peppering the walls behind him. He landed behind another loveseat, pieces of the room's drywall fluttering around him like powdered snow.  
  
The last guards, realizing he was a superior warrior, charged Thomas. Pounding across the room, they split up, seeking to attack from both sides.  
  
Vincent again sprung into action, striving to track a rushing mobster. With time running out and unable to get a head shot, Vincent aimed low. Again pulling the trigger, he released another shot. Flying though the already shattered glass of the window, it dug into the man's hip. The round instantly shattered his hipbone. As the man's left side collapsed into itself, his body was bent at a ninety degree angle. His head suddenly able to inspect his wound closely.  
  
With one less threat, Thomas extended his gun out under the chair. He fired into the last man's foot. The bullet pierced his Italian loafers and cut into his foot. The shot severed his big toe, sending blood flowing out of the resulting stump. Losing his balance, the gangster collapsed forwards. Unable to catch himself on any furniture, he desperately tried to use his shotgun as a crutch. Propping the butt of the weapon against his chest, he braced himself as the end of the barrel slammed against the floor. The resulting shock from the impact discharged the two rounds already in the chamber. With nowhere else to disperse the energy, the full force of the shot pushed the barrel into his chest. It crushed his rib cage, plunging fragmented bones into his lungs.  
  
As the last guard futilely tried to suck air into his punctured lung, Thomas slowly rose from behind the chair. Flashing a thumbs-up to Vincent's position, he quickly walked into the bedroom. Vincent watched Thomas checking the room, equally confused as to the location of Joey. With his gun drawn, Thomas checked beneath the bed and into the closet, but Joey was not to be found. Finally coming to the bathroom, Thomas stood briefly in front of the door preparing for what would come next. Ready, he gave the door a solid kick, knocking it inwards. 


	6. Italian Stallion

Vincent watched as the thin door crumpled inwards. Through his sniper rifle's scope, he targeted the bathroom, ready to help Thomas with Joey. Standing equally prepared was Thomas, his stolen .45 locked on the bathroom.  
  
The door slammed the ground, both men swept the room with their eyes.  
  
It was empty.  
  
Thomas proceeded inwards, checking every corner of the water closet. He carefully tread over the fallen door, his senses on full alert. Despite being in a penthouse, the bathroom was shockingly small. There was no place to hide.  
  
Except the shower.  
  
His gun at the ready, Thomas threw open the opaque shower curtain, expecting Joey to be lying in wait.  
  
The shower was empty.  
  
"Shit," Thomas said, looking at a small window above the showerhead. The window was small, no more than 3' by 2'. "Goddamn," Thomas yelled into his radio, "he's outside, probably heading to the roof."  
  
"Shit," Vincent replied. "Alright, you start going up, I'll check it out."  
  
Vincent pulled his eyes out of the scope, checking the rooftop with his naked eyes first. Nothing up there, he thought to himself, better go a little more in-depth though. As he readjusted his scope to check the roof, he heard it.  
  
Thooth, thooth, thooth. The thick thumping of a helicopter. Vincent backed his head away from the scope again, turning to look behind him. In the bright light of the afternoon sun, a black helicopter approached.  
  
The helicopter was clearly military-grade. Looks like a huey, Vincent thought. It was heavy with weapons: rockets, miniguns, and small bombs. The huey's side doors were slid wide open, allowing Vincent to see through the bird, to the buildings behind it. The pilot approached the Olympic Hotel slowly, apparently he had been warned of hostiles. The copter flew directly over Vincent, sending a hail of dust and dirt into his face. Well, fuck, Vincent thought.  
  
"Hey Tommy," He called over the radio, "things just got hairy. Looks like they got a huey comin' up there, fully decked out."  
  
"I hear it," Thomas responded, worry in his voice. "Can you give me any help? I'm just about up."  
  
"I'll see what I can do. This is gonna be rough."  
  
"Isn't it always?"  
  
Vincent returned to his scope, checking out the roof as the helicopter began its final approach. Joey appeared from behind an air conditioning unit. The frantic Italian waved madly at the pilot, urging him to land. Not wanting to upset his employer, the pilot set down the bird in an open section of the rooftop. The bird dropping encrusted gravel of the roof crunched as Joey began his sprint to freedom.  
  
As Joey was hoofing it to the helicopter, Thomas appeared over the roof's edge. Using his large upperbody, Thomas pulled himself up and unto the roof. This might just work, Vincent thought, observing through his scope, you just better run fast Thomas.  
  
Thomas yanked out his sidearm as he ran desperately after Joey. But with his headstart, Joey was only feet away from the copter, madly trying to get in. With a final jump, Joey was in the bird, but not out of danger.  
  
Half a rooftop away, Thomas charged toward the helicopter, firing rounds into its rear section. With each step we took, his aim was thrown off. Gunning two handed, he released ten rounds into the tail quarter of the machine. The bullets bounced harmlessly off the armor plating, zinging randomly around the roof. Realizing the futility of his efforts, Thomas threw down his weapon. Focused solely on running, Thomas closed the gap between himself and the helicopter to mere yards.  
  
Joey screamed to the pilot to take off. The frightened man did so, not understanding the situation and why a man was shooting at him. Th pilot expertly lifted the copter a few feet into the air. He quickly spun 180 degrees, turning the cockpit to face Vincent on the carpark. No more time, Vincent franticly thought, Thomas isn't gonna make it. The pilot was already off the roof, hovering feet from its edge. As the pilot prepared to gain altitude, Vincent aimed his rifle at the pilot's head. Sorry Thomas, this is one guy we aren't bringing in, he thought, time to cut this one loose. Hoping for the best, he pulled the trigger.  
  
As Vincent sent the sniper round at the pilot, Thomas leapt towards the landing rail of the helicopter. Fully extending his body, Thomas grasped the rail. At that moment, the high caliber rifle round pierced the cockpit window. The high-density glass shattered, diverting the bullet, but sending a storm of glass into the cockpit. The pilot let out a scream as the deflected bullet slammed into his shoulder with a hollow, "thunk." The bullet was merely a precursor to the real pain the pilot would feel. Following shortly behind the bullet, like a parade of pain, was the high- density cockpit glass. The shards flew into the pilot, gashing his haggard face. One large piece slashed into his right eye, spewing forth a river of blood.  
  
"Shit!" Vincent yelled as he saw Thomas precariously hanging onto the helicopter. You just had to chase the bastard, didn't you Thomas? Vincent thought. This will be hard.  
  
With his once perfect vision turned into a sea of red, the pilot lost control. Without its pilot's guidance, the helicopter's tail swung wide. The black hindquarters of the copter scarped against a nearby building. Its tail rotor was torn off, sending the bird into a spin. Vincent watched as Thomas fought to hang on, twirling directly above him.  
  
Vincent observed the copter's lazy spin, desperately formulating a plan. That fucker's spin's taking it south, he thought, directly south of the carpark. He traced the helicopter's path in his mind. It should be spinning pretty low just about there, he thought, looking at the southwest corner of the carpark. Right by that ramp…  
  
Vincent looked around, desperately trying to find a car. To his right was a deep blue Stallion convertible. Perfect, he thought as he ran towards the vehicle. He dropped his rifle as he dug into his pocket, searching for his key.  
  
The CIA issued all its agents a special car key. The key, a result of a CIA contract with American car manufacturers, could start any American-made car in the world, regardless of brand or make.  
  
Finding the key, Vincent put one hand on the Stallion's doorframe, vaulting into the front seat. He jammed the key into the ignition, starting the car just as the helicopter crossed overhead. Vincent slammed the car into drive, pulling out of the parking space as the helicopter spun outwards. He crushed the gas pedal, chasing desperately after the wounded bird. This will work, Vincent tried to convince himself.  
  
Above, the spinning Thomas looked down, noticing Vincent speeding after him. Thomas understood the plan and threw a wave down to Vincent to prove it.  
  
Vincent watched the helicopter spin southwards, passing the edge of the carpark. Only yards behind it, he continued to punish the pedal, coaxing everything he could from the V8. At last, he hit the ramp at the carpark's corner. With one last jolt, the rear wheels of the car were freed from the top floor of the gray building, soaring through the air. As if time had slowed to a crawl, the Stallion coasted on nothingness. It's momentum peaked, pulling the automobile directly below the helicopter.  
  
Realizing his chance, Thomas released his death-grip on the metal rail, allowing himself to fall. Vincent looked up, watching his partner plummet towards him. At last, the Englishman landed in the backseat of the car, jostling the entire frame.  
  
"Heeeeehaaaw!" Vincent screamed, realizing success. The Stallion's arc turned downwards as the car lost momentum, sending the agents falling into an empty intersection.  
  
With a thunderous crash, the front of the muscle car hit first, sending sparks flying into the intersection. The shock sent the two men flying forwards, nearly slamming Vincent's head into the dashboard, and throwing Thomas into the front seat. As the Stallion's rear end hit the ground, Vincent grabbed the e-brake, tearing it upwards. The car was instantly wretched 90 degrees, angling it east.  
  
"Thanks," Thomas managed, fighting for breath.  
  
"Yeah, well, you know, I try," He replied cockily.  
  
Above them, the pilot made a last ditch effort to save the wounded helicopter. With blood in his eyes, he desperately fought for control. He succeeded, momentarily straightening out the copter. Pulling it out of its tailspin, he headed east, towards Portland. The pilot kept his bird in the sky, flying low in-between the buildings lining the street.  
  
"Shall we?" Thomas asked dryly, pointing to the helicopter swerving left and right drunkenly.  
  
"Indeed." Vincent replied, stepping on the gas.  
  
The helicopter dramatically lost altitude as it reached the end of the street. It resumed it spin, diving downwards. The copter, having reached the end of the road, spun over the east side of speedway. The out of control bird barely missed an overhead overpass, thankfully dodging a collision with the congested road.  
  
The blue Stallion tore down the road, trying to catch up with the doomed helicopter. Vincent watched as the copter disappeared past the road and beneath his field of vision.  
  
"Well shit," he said loudly.  
  
"Yeah, looks like Asuka's old place is getting a renovation," Thomas commented.  
  
The helicopter fell, spinning between two red brick condos. At that point, Joey decided to bail out. He leapt from the open copter. The inertia of the spin and the force of his dive sent him flying into the backyard of one of the condos. Joey splashed into the algae filled pool of the rightmost condo. As he breached the surface, the pilot lost all control, spinning into the left condo.  
  
The front of the copter smashed into the red building, mercifully killing the pilot quickly. As the front end crumpled, sending glass cascading to the black asphalt, the right side hit. The heavy munitions exploded on impact. In an instant, the smashed helicopter was overwhelmed by an expanding inferno. The force of the combined explosion of fuel tanks, bombs and rockets blew the south side of the condo inwards. With one side suddenly destroyed, the condo collapsed down onto the helicopter. The copter plummeted to the ground, followed by a torrent of red brick. The bricks crushed the burning remains of the helicopter, releasing a cloud of red dust on impact.  
  
Watching the devastation from the car, Vincent continued his pressure on the pedal. He ate the gap between the Stallion and the end of the road. Tearing through a red light, he laid on the horn, warning any cross traffic.  
  
Over the blare of the horn, Thomas yelled, "Um, time to stop Vincent, no more road!"  
  
Vincent only let out a crooked smile as the Stallion hit the road's edge and was again launched airborne. The car took off level this time, creating little resistance as all four wheels flew off the end of the road. Keeping its straight path, the car continued parallel to the absent ground for an instant. But gravity took hold in milliseconds, slowly angling the automobile downwards. Returning to solid ground, the car landed safely, without the jolts of its prior flight. As is hit, Vincent slammed his foot on the brake and pulled the e-brake, desperately bringing the car to a screeching halt.  
  
Completely destroyed by the insane driving, the old car's suspension collapsed, dropping the car's body to the ground. Vincent quickly opened his door, setting foot on the red dust-caked ground.  
  
"I always wanted a low-rider," he announced as he turned to Thomas, still sitting in the passenger's seat.  
  
Thomas slowly pushed his door outward, taking his time to get back his footing. "Might I suggest you invest in a Lobo next time," he said, still displeased by the second airtime.  
  
"Well, let's go collect our suspect, whatever's left of him," Vincent said decisively, leading the way towards the crash. 


End file.
